


Belonging: a sort of Cinderella story

by Eloarei



Category: Fire and Hemlock - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Cinderella Elements, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28443849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloarei/pseuds/Eloarei
Summary: Polly didn't especially want to be married, but she thought the lords' fancy party might be a nice change of pace. A house like that, a family like that-- they had to be hiding some sort of mystery. She just didn't expect that mystery to be so tied to a man's fate.
Relationships: Thomas Lynn/Polly Whittacker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Belonging: a sort of Cinderella story

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this on a whim during NaNoWriMo. I wanted to get a feel for the characters, and I like fairytale AUs, so this seemed natural. And of course I chose Cinderella because that was the one Polly hated. Really it only bears a vague resemblance to Cinderella, but the underlying structure is there.

Once upon a time, in a kingdom just outside the edge of nowhere, a young woman called Polly lived with her family. They lived in a pretty little cottage down the road from the local Lord’s manor. The Whittacker family was not rich, but they got by well enough. They were utterly average, as far as Polly knew, including the fact that they got along _alright,_ but by no means perfectly.  
  
Ivy, Polly’s mother, was domineering yet somehow distant, always complaining to anyone who would listen when things were not as she thought they should be, or when people were not giving her the respect she felt she deserved. Polly’s father, Reg, was a jovial sort, mostly ignoring his wife’s complaints. Polly, not quite old enough to strike out on her own (and unsure where she’d go even if she was) often got caught between them and their bickering. Any time she wasn’t being used as either sword or shield by either mother or father, she sat in the window up in her room and read stories of adventures and the heroic young men and women who embarked upon them.  
  
Granny was the glue that held the family together, always sure to let Ivy and Reg know when the fighting had gotten out of hand, and quick to take Polly to town to escape it. Granny didn’t care for reading, too solidly rooted in reality, but she encouraged Polly’s habit anyway, and was the source of most of her books.  
  
“You’re stuck in this town just yet, so I don’t suppose there’s any harm in giving you something to occupy your mind,” she might say as she allowed Polly to browse the local general-shop for new reading material. “Better that than paying too much attention to how badly your parents behave, anyway. Wouldn’t want you growing up emulating them, and I daresay any story you might read would have a better example to follow.”  
  
Because Granny was so supportive, Polly should have known just to go straight to her for help when a mysterious invitation appeared, summoning her to a grand party up at Hunsdon House, the manor in which lived the Lord’s family. It seemed one of the Lord’s many extended relatives was looking to find a prospective wife, and though Polly was not necessarily interested in marrying, she thought the party was likely to be a much greater adventure than she would otherwise have a chance at. The Lord’s family wasn’t often seen outside their sprawling land, after all, and Polly couldn’t help thinking they might be hiding some kind of mystery, like in one of her books.  
  
She happened to mention it to her mother first, and her father by chance as well, as the two of them were arguing in the kitchen when the impulse struck her.  
  
“Mother, do you have a dress I might borrow for Lord Leroy’s party?” she asked.  
  
Ivy turned from Reg and regarded Polly with sudden suspicion. “What party?” she asked sharply, ripping the invitation out of Polly’s hands when she produced it, and reading the letter as if it had done her a great injustice personally. “No, I don’t have a dress,” she said. “And why would the Lord invite you anyway? What sort of nobleman would want to marry a commoner without even any skills?”  
  
This was just how Ivy was sometimes, so Polly tried not to take it personally, and was going to answer with something sensible, but her father chimed in with a joking smile that obscured the seriousness of his comment. “That’s a dangerous game, Polly, putting your hand in for marriage to a man you’ve never even met. He could be ugly. He could be _old!_ ”  
  
Polly’s first instinct was to argue that age and attractiveness were of far inferior importance to qualities like kindness and valor, but she resisted getting pulled into that thread. Her father was very good at getting people to argue with him under the guise of friendly debate, and that was not her intention. She sighed and answered her mother’s question instead. “Well, he _did_ invite me, and I don’t want to go to get _married,_ I just think it would be an adventure.”  
  
_“Oh,”_ Ivy said, a bit mocking. “She wants to go to this party and she doesn’t even want to get married. Too good for even a Lord’s son, hmm?”  
  
Reg crossed his arms jauntily. “Of course she’s too good for him, whoever he is. She’s our Polly, after all!”  
  
“She’s only _our_ Polly when she’s being ridiculous,” Ivy countered. “Otherwise you seem to think she belongs exclusively to you, as if you were the one to go to the trouble of having her.”  
  
Polly shook her head and let her parents get back to fighting, and went to find Granny instead.  
  
“So you’ve been invited, have you?” Granny said, as if she had expected something of the sort to happen eventually. Maybe she did. She’d lived long enough to see the cycle several times, after all. “Well I certainly don’t have anything in the right style, even if it did fit you, but perhaps we can get one of your nicer dresses altered a bit.”  
  
Granny was alright at sewing, but not wonderful, so she took one of Polly’s older dresses to a seamstress in town and had it turned into something that might not look terribly out of place at a gala. She completed the outfit with a little opal pendant in the shape of a heart.  
  
“There,” Granny said, as Polly tried it all on. “Now you’re ready to face them.”  
  
Polly rather liked how Granny made it sound like she was going to battle. That wasn’t how she felt, though, when the time came. She felt like it really was: that she was a nobody being graciously let into a space usually reserved for the more elite.  
  
Living only just down the road from the manor, Polly didn’t need a horse and carriage. She simply walked. Many of the other attendees came by carriage though, some large, some glittering. Most of the ladies (and the men, who had been invited… to round things out?) looked very well put-together, though Polly was fairly certain that not all of them were rich. She recognized a few girls she’d gone to school with over the years, or seen around town, and most of them came from households similar to hers. Her old best friend Nina was there, looking bold and confident, and the girl she’d been friends with more recently, Fiona, was also in attendance, looking just a bit less bold. Polly imagined she would be wrangled into a conversation with any number of the other attendees eventually, but while nobody was paying attention to her, she let herself explore the house.  
  
Hunsdon House was a beautiful place, if a little too tidy for her liking. It sat in the middle of a great green garden, with ponds and various statuary dotting the landscape. Inside were a collection of enormous vases, almost worryingly large, which was what Polly’s mind first caught on. What she _should_ have caught on was the very ornate wrap-around staircase taking up the sides of the grand entryway (which seemed to function as the primary ballroom as well), but the vases had just seemed so unusual that she’d only spared a moment for the staircase before her eyes slid over to them. She didn’t think it was any sort of omen; she just wondered if those vases were where the Leroys’ secrets were kept. They were certainly large enough.  
  
With so many people milling about, it wasn’t hard for her to escape notice, so she wandered off into the manor’s side-rooms to see what she could find. Every room on the ground floor had guests standing about in small clusters, talking and drinking and laughing. Every so often she heard people remark about how lovely the house was, or how beautiful Lady Laurel looked tonight, or wondering when the eligible young lord would finally make his appearance. The party was for his benefit, was it not? So surely he should be in attendance, unless his absence was meant to drive up curiosity.  
  
The party was just as much to the benefit of the women in attendance, Polly thought, watching the girls in their dresses flitter about, as if hoping the lamplight might catch on them and showcase whatever jewelry they’d adorned themselves with. The young lord, whoever he was, probably didn’t need their meager riches as much as _they_ needed _his_ (or felt they needed it). But Polly was not very concerned about the games of show-and-tell being played, or who might end up betrothed at the end of the night. She rather thought they might have some decent books around here somewhere, and that was her primary interest.  
  
She wandered through a dining room, a drawing room, a handful of smaller rooms the purposes of which were not immediately clear, and a few servant’s areas, and then back out into the main hall, where she circled around to the staircase. People were loitering around on them, which meant both that she had to wiggle her way past them as she went up, and that nobody was paying enough attention to ask her not to trespass into private rooms. To be fair, most of the doors were unlocked, and some even stood open. She thought that was invitation enough.  
  
A few of the rooms she came to were clearly bedchambers, and she exited those again fairly quickly, feeling rude for intruding upon someone’s personal sanctuary, even if they _had_ left the door open. She did find herself lingering in one lovely rose-colored bedroom, just for a few moments. She’d caught a snatch of her reflection in a silver-wrought mirror as she made to leave, and she couldn’t help but pause a moment to watch as opalescent colors seemed to drift around her image. But a burst of laughter from down in the hall broke the spell, and she shook her head and went back out onto the overlook.  
  
Eventually, Polly found herself in a quiet room full of paintings. At first she thought it might be the library, because it had that library-like stillness and ink smell, and because it was entirely void of party-goers. But the room was really more of a gallery, with pictures on every wall and nary a word in sight. Polly didn’t _love_ paintings, but she appreciated them. They were said to be worth a thousand words each, after all. And she felt that the creators of such works were probably near as respectable as writers, imagining that they could both at least probably commiserate over ink-stained hands.  
  
Most of the paintings were quite good, as far as she could tell, not being a practiced connoisseur, but she stood longest and admired a dusky depiction of a fire in a field, set late in the evening. She couldn’t say that it was necessarily masterful (maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t), but it was beautiful in its mysterious way. Polly felt sure this one had much more to say than a thousand words, even though it was relatively simple.  
  
“Do you think that one’s a little out of place among the rest of these?”  
  
Polly turned to her right and found a man standing in a corner, ostensibly observing a painting of a knight kneeling before an altar, but obviously commenting on the one upon which Polly was transfixed. He looked at her and it out of the corner of his eye as he faced forward, and she wondered if he could even _see_ them properly without turning his head enough to make use of his glasses. What was the point of glasses if you were just going to look at everything _around_ them?  
  
“I think it’s quite nice,” Polly said defensively.  
  
“I hope so,” the man said, turning both body and head towards her. “Only, does it really fit in?”  
  
Polly wasn’t sure what to say to that. _Did_ it fit in? She didn’t know. What exactly would make a painting out of place? She did think it was different somehow (it was the only one which drew her in, of course), but it was still a painting. It was still made of oil and canvas and presumably some amount of love and devotion on the artist’s part. Yet, she did think she knew what this man meant... She furrowed her brow. “Maybe it depends on your perspective.”  
  
She couldn’t quite tell if it was a joke or if he was serious, but the man came to stand very close to her and peer at the painting from there. “No, I still don’t think it belongs,” he said. And then he smiled at her, and she didn’t really mind whether he was being sincere or silly, because she could tell he was not being cruel either way. “Maybe I should have mentioned that it was my painting.”  
  
_Oh,_ Polly thought. This was one of the Leroys. “So you own this one,” she said, feeling just a little bit disinterested suddenly because she wasn’t sure she knew what to say to someone who owned expensive paintings and thought that gave them carte blanche to criticise them.  
  
“Ah, yes and no,” the man replied, ducking his head a little. “I mean that I painted it.”  
  
_“Ohh.”_ Polly felt ashamed to have jumped to conclusions, and relieved to have been wrong. So this man was the _painter._ The revelation made her relax and warm to him almost immediately. “So is that why you’re here? Because you paint for the Leroys?”  
  
The man looked a little bit uneasy, but he nodded sort of sideways. “In a way.” There was a pause where he looked at her with his head still tilted. “And yourself? Here to take your chance with the young lord?” He said this last part in a sarcastic tone that implied he didn’t think very highly of the whole event, which made Polly like him even more.  
  
“I mostly came to see the house,” she admitted with a smile less sheepish than it would have been if she had been less sure that he’d understand. “I thought they might be hiding some kind of secret or mystery, you know, being such a rich old family. Ghosts or vampires, or maybe just something mundane like an ancient treasure.”  
  
With a guilty, surprised little laugh, the man grinned at her. “Ah, then you were in here looking for the treasure room? Thought the secret passage might be behind a painting?”  
  
“That’s a good idea,” Polly said, putting a hand on her hip as she considered it. A few of these pictures were just about large enough to conceal a passageway. “But really I was just browsing. I thought I might find a library if I checked all the corners.”  
  
Humming, the man tapped his chin, as if in thought. “You know, I do believe there is one around here somewhere. I could help you find it, if you’re interested.”  
  
“I am interested,” she told him. “Though, I don’t want to keep you from the party.”  
  
_“Please_ keep me from the party,” he said, grimacing. “I came in here thinking to find a bit of peace and quiet. Truthfully, I think the library will be an even better bet.”  
  
And so Polly obligingly followed him through the winding halls and into a quiet, book-stuffed room devoid of any other living humans. It was exactly what she was looking for, and her face lit up in such a childishly pleased way that she might have been embarrassed if she cared.  
  
“And here we are, Miss…?”  
  
“Oh, Polly,” she said, giving him a kind of curtsy that would have been proud to be called half-baked. “Whittacker, that is. I’m sorry I didn’t ask yours, Mr…?”  
  
“Lynn,” the man answered automatically, and then hesitated slightly. “But Tom is fine.”  
  
Introductions had (a tad late but better than forgotten entirely), the two of them happily delved into the library. Polly had scarcely seen so many books in her life, let alone in one place. It wasn’t a huge room, but every shelf (of which there were many) was full of books. It had perhaps more books than what served as the bookstore in town. She was terribly excited.  
  
Given her excitement, she should have been annoyed to be interrupted, but Tom’s periodic commentary was pleasant. He had read a good many of the books here, and took to pointing out ones he thought she would like, based on the ones she pointed out which were familiar. She knew she wouldn’t have time to read them all (or even very much of any one of them), so she didn’t allow herself to become very invested, but she made mental note of the ones that seemed good at a glance, so that she could ask the local bookseller about them later. Instead of reading, she and Tom mostly discussed the things they had read, of which there was enough overlap to keep the conversation going well into the evening.  
  
When her eyes were not busy skimming a book’s pages or admiring its binding, Polly looked at Tom. (It was polite to look at a person when they were speaking, or at least her family would say so. Personally, she didn’t think Tom would be offended if she multi-tasked chatting and reading, as he seemed to be doing roughly the same, but even so.) In the low light of the lamps, she found it difficult to gauge his looks exactly, but she assumed he was a bit older, based partly on the lay of his hair (which she certainly would have thought of as grey when she was a child, but now recognized as fieldmouse brown or maybe dishwater blonde), and partly based on the fact that he clearly wasn’t interested in mingling with the ladies out in the house proper (or trying to get the attention of the young lord, wherever he might be). She thought it likely that he was married.  
  
“Do you work with the Leroys often?” she asked, wondering why he was here on this night specifically, if he didn’t like the crowd. Clearly he had access to the house on more than just special events, and he could have come to read any other time.  
  
Again he grimaced, with the shadow of the guilty laugh clinging to it. “Too often,” he said, his voice low and almost apologetic. “I became involved with the family at a young age, and to my dismay I seem unable to shake their grip on me. Perhaps I shouldn’t complain; they’ve provided for me richly. Even so, I do sometimes think I would prefer to make my own way.”  
  
Polly supposed that it might be difficult for an artist to succeed without a wealthy patron, but this was a vast world they lived in. Surely there were others who would pay Tom’s way, if he didn’t get on well with the Leroys. “I bet you could find other buyers for your paintings,” she told him. “I liked the one I saw, and clearly the Leroys did too, so I don’t see why other moneyed folk shouldn’t.”  
  
Tom seemed surprised out of the track of the conversation. “Oh I don’t think I’d try to get by as a painter. That’s just a hobby, really. What I best excel at is playing cello.”  
  
That threw Polly for a loop, and she gaped at him much the same way he’d gaped at her, realizing that they’d completely passed each other by in their assumptions. “Then which do the Leroys sponsor you for?” she asked, trying to make sense of it.  
  
“I wouldn’t say they really sponsor me for anything,” Tom said, one eyebrow raised over the golden rim of his glasses. “It’s more that they expect the men and women of their house to be learned in many arts.”  
  
“Of their house,” Polly echoed. Constellations began to wink on in her head. “You mean to say you _are_ a _Leroy.”_  
  
Uneasy again, Tom said, “Sort of. Adopted, almost. You see I’d lost my parents at a young age, and Laurel… took me in, you could say.”  
  
Polly felt so stupid. _Of course_ Tom was of the family; who else was so familiar with them or their house, when they were best known for being reclusive? And he knew all the rooms and the paintings and the books because he lived here-- which was also why he wasn’t interested in the party. She imagined a bunch of people crowding into her living room, being glitzy and obnoxious when she just wanted to go about her routine. And for nearly none of them to be interested in anything she liked, well yes, that would be very boring indeed.  
  
She decided that Tom was in a situation a bit similar to hers: a fledgling looking longingly out of the nest, but not quite ready to take that flight. “You must be bored to death of this house, then.”  
  
“Almost,” he said, with a wry half-smile. “I would be, if Laurel didn’t have a habit of taking in new family members from time to time. I think that’s the only reason I’m still here. She’s too busy with them to pay me much mind, and I’m allowed to do mostly as I please. At least, until they decide they have use of me.”  
  
“That seems how mothers are,” Polly agreed, though she suspected Lady Laurel wasn’t _quite_ comparable to Ivy. Ivy wouldn’t pay for Polly to have painting or music lessons if her life depended on it, she thought. But, no matter. It was the feeling that counted, and their shared experience made Polly’s feeling of kinship with Tom grow. “Maybe you’d like to get out of the house,” she suggested, putting her book back where she found it. “We could go for a walk?”  
  
The idea seemed to cheer Tom up considerably, and he nodded gratefully. He led the way back out into the hall, waiting for her in the doorway. She thought it looked like he was going to offer her his hand, but thought better of it and simply walked close by. They wound down the staircase, through throngs of people milling around on the edge of the dance floor, and then into a side-passage on the ground floor, which led out to the gardens. They weren’t stopped by anybody, but every so often somebody would seem to notice Tom, and their eyes lit up as they greeted him. One remarked that ‘everyone’ had been looking for him, and another just before they disappeared down the dark servants-hall said, mock-jovially, “skulking about on your own! You won’t find a wife by missing your own party!”  
  
None of those people spared a glance for Polly, but she felt very exposed suddenly, having just pieced together another constellation.  
  
“You’re the young lord,” Polly said as they sneaked out the side door and into the fresh night air. “The one who’s looking to get married! Why didn’t you tell me?” She wasn’t really that offended, but Tom cringed at her question anyway.  
  
“The party wasn’t my idea. Another one of Laurel’s grand schemes.” He sighed heavily and slowed his pace slightly, meandering toward the back of the house. “I thought you’d enjoy yourself better if you didn’t know. And… I didn’t want to be fawned over, to tell the truth.”  
  
Polly’s brow wrinkled at the implication that she might act like all the other simpering girls. “I wouldn’t have fawned over you anyway!” she told him, and then shrunk down a little because she hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. Concedingly, she added, “Though I suppose I might have been a little more shy.”  
  
“Right,” Tom said with a nod. “I was enjoying our conversation. I didn’t want to influence it by something in neither of our control. Do you hold it against me? I would understand if you no longer wanted to talk.”  
  
He said this very smoothly, but Polly could tell he would be quite disappointed. “No,” she said, though she was a little annoyed. Maybe not at Tom but at circumstances that would have encouraged him to lie. ...Well, maybe at Tom _a little._ He _could_ have told her. “You did say it wasn’t your idea.”  
  
“Not at all,” Tom told her, looking relieved to admit it to someone. Chances were that he couldn’t exactly express this to the Leroys without stepping on some toes.  
  
“Does that mean you really don’t want to get married?” Polly asked. She looked up at him curiously, realizing that he was maybe a little younger than she’d initially thought. Or perhaps the moonlight just made him glow in a youthful way. Either way, it should not have been a foregone conclusion that he was already married, regardless.  
  
Tom laughed somewhat. “Oh no, definitely not! Ah, not at Laurel’s behest anyway. I don’t have strong feelings about the concept. I’m sure it works for some people, though I’ve yet to see it first hand.”  
  
“Mm,” Polly hummed. “I’ve seen good marriages in books, so they must have got the idea from somewhere.”  
  
They both chuckled over that as they strolled through the gardens, around lavender and rose bushes. But then Tom turned melancholy. “I’m afraid I will have to pick someone,” he said quietly. “After the Leroys went to all this trouble and expense, I doubt they’ll accept that I simply didn’t get on with anyone at the party.”  
  
“You got on with me alright,” Polly said with a half-frown.  
  
“Yes,” Tom admitted. “And I even think it _wouldn’t_ be terrible to see you so frequently. But you didn’t come here to be married; you said so yourself.”  
  
“You’re right, I didn’t.” Polly nodded concedingly. She didn’t think her Granny would approve of her getting married to a man she’d only known for a few hours, and Polly was old enough to agree that it was a foolish notion. But Tom marrying some random girl he’d not spoken a word to, just because his adopted family thought he _should,_ well that was foolish too!  
  
“Anyway,” Tom continued. “I wouldn’t subject you to that. Whoever is chosen… I’m quite sure she won’t have a good time of it. At best, she’ll be another plaything for Laurel.”  
  
That was ominous enough, especially as Tom really sounded like he wasn’t being hyperbolic. Polly probably should have known better, then, than to ask, “And, at worst?”  
  
Tom shook his head. “I can’t say.” Polly got the feeling he was being literal.  
  
Her brow drew down over her eyes as she squinted at him in consideration and concern. “You’re really in some kind of danger, aren’t you?” she asked.  
  
“I think I should be safe,” he told her, and he gave her a guarded sort of look that seemed to be very meaningful. “You’re in much more danger than I. Truthfully, I shouldn’t even have spoken to you. In fact, I think it would be best if you leave.”  
  
“But…” Polly found that she very much did not want to leave, not _now._ She’d just stumbled upon the mystery she knew the Leroys were hiding (though she still didn’t quite understand it). Furthermore, she liked Tom, and she _dis_ liked the idea of him coerced into a loveless marriage with some other poor girl. It seemed a bad end all around, especially if it was as dire as he was _not saying._  
  
“I appreciate your kindness and your time,” Tom said, interrupting whatever protest she might have been planning to give. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Polly. Maybe you’ll think of me when you read those books I recommended.”  
  
She didn’t like it, but she could tell he was pushing her away, and that he was planning to give in to his sad fate of being the Leroys’ housepet or whatever he was. “And maybe you’ll tell the Leroys ‘thanks for everything’, grab your cello, and leave them in the dust!” she said, frustrated with his obedience.  
  
Sadly, he said, “You make that sound like it’s not impossible,” clearly disbelieving her.  
  
She didn’t know why he thought it _was,_ but she could tell, painfully, that he truly believed this was not something he could do. It hurt her to hear that, and it made her blood rise up. The interaction hung there in the air between them like a depressed bolt of lightning, and then Polly found that they met in the middle of it, sharing a quick, desperate little kiss. She wasn’t sure whose idea it was, other than both of them, simultaneously aware that it might be the last and only chance to silently express the tumultuous feelings encased within.  
  
The kiss may have softened and grown into something more delicate, if it weren’t for the woman’s voice calling out, “Tom, dear!” from around the corner of the bushes they stood behind. Tom inhaled sharply and immediately pushed Polly into the bushes. She was made vividly aware that they were rose bushes as she struggled to free herself from their thorns and remain hidden. But Tom had already walked away, approaching the woman so that she didn’t come to find him and see Polly flailing amidst bright red roses and bright red scratches on her face and arms.  
  
“Where have you been all evening?” the woman’s honey-sweet voice asked, slowly trailing off as Tom likely guided her away. “The girls are all _dying_ to meet you.”  
  
Polly didn’t hear Tom’s answer in her rush to free herself from the roses and hurry in the opposite direction. She was sure the woman was Laurel, and though she didn’t understand the situation fully, Tom had seemed rather adamant that Polly not be caught by her. She would have liked to rush back to the house and rip Tom out of the woman’s grasp, but instinctively (and reasonably, given that she really had no idea what might happen), she heeded his warning instead, made her way to the front gate, and headed home.  
  
Granny seemed mildly surprised to see her when she came into the kitchen from the side door. She’d apparently been waiting up for Polly, sitting over a plate of shortbreads and two conveniently steaming cups of tea. Polly was glad to see all three.  
  
“Did you get in a fight with their house cat?” she asked, both eyebrows raised ever so slightly.  
  
“Rose bush,” Polly said, stuffing down the buttery confections.  
  
“Ah,” Granny said, as if that explained everything. “Did you have a good time otherwise?”  
  
Polly thought about that for a moment as she washed the snacks down with a long sip of tea. She burned her tongue slightly but it didn’t really bother her. “Y--...es,” she replied, still considering if that was the right answer. “They had a very nice library, and a painting gallery too. But did you know that the young lord they’d set the party up for didn’t even want to get married?”  
  
Granny sipped her own tea. “Is that right?”  
  
Sighing, Polly said, “I felt quite bad about the situation. He didn’t get on with the Leroys very well, but felt he couldn’t leave them either. And now they’re forcing him to marry. It’s a shame. He seemed… nice.” She didn’t mention the quick kiss, or the electricity between them, and definitely not the mystery she still felt was there regarding Lady Laurel’s propensity for gathering new family members.  
  
Opening her mouth as if to respond, Granny then paused and gazed curiously at Polly’s neckline. “Where’s your pendant?” she asked.  
  
Polly’s hand flew to her chest, feeling for the shape of the charm. It wasn’t there. “Oh, it must have got caught in the rose bush! I’m sorry, Granny. I could go look for it? I think the party’s still on.”  
  
A bit ruefully, Granny shook her head. “No, don’t bother. It served its purpose, and I rather think you should avoid that house from now on, if they’ve got the scent of you.”  
  
It wasn’t a very satisfactory ending, but Polly agreed it was probably for the best not to get involved with the Leroys or Hunsdon House anymore. They were different worlds from Polly’s simple life, and she had no place interfering in the strange games they played. Maybe Tom would get married, but perhaps he would like it. After all, for all the stories written about it, it had to be true somewhere.  
  
Polly went to sleep frowning, but when she woke up, she found she’d mostly put it from her mind.  
  
Life returned to normal for the next week or so. Polly found a few of the books that Tom had suggested, and she did think of him while she read them-- or at least until she got pulled into the story. But she tried not to dwell on him much otherwise, only allowing herself idle speculation about him when she was falling to sleep and couldn’t control her thoughts.  
  
But not a fortnight after the party, several rich-looking people showed up at the house. Granny answered the door with a rather unfriendly “yes?”, and Polly peered down from the top of the stairs. It was a very pretty woman flanked by an older man and a much younger one, all dressed as if they couldn’t possibly have a thing to do with a house like the Whittackers’, or the people who lived there.  
  
“Hello,” the woman said smoothly. Polly shivered at the familiar voice, but didn’t quite place it until the woman continued to speak. “I come on behalf of Lord Tom Lynn of the Leroy family, looking for the young woman to whom this pendant belongs.”  
  
On fleet and foolish feet Polly found herself carried down the stairs and to the front door. “That’s mine,” she said to Lady Laurel. She reached for it, but Granny took it instead, shooting Polly just the shortest of admonishing looks.  
  
“How wonderful,” Laurel said, in a voice so warm and sweet it made Polly feel sickly. “So very good that we found you! I’m pleased to tell you that our Tom has expressed his most profound desire for your hand in marriage.”  
  
Polly gaped at Laurel, probably very inelegantly, but it didn’t seem to deter her or her bone-white smile in the slightest. She didn’t know what to say. Tom had chosen her? But he’d said he _wouldn’t_ choose her! He’d said that no good would come to the woman picked to marry him, and she was quite sure he liked her well enough not to wish misfortune on her. But perhaps he’d been exaggerating? Maybe he changed his mind and decided after all that having a wife he didn’t dislike was worth her ‘becoming Laurel’s plaything, or worse’.  
  
“That’s rather sudden,” Granny said peevishly, as Polly floundered for response. “And I daresay it would be improper to allow Polly to marry when her parents haven’t even met the young man.”  
  
Laurel hardly batted an eye. “Oh it’s quite proper for the parents to arrange these things, among nobler circles,” she told Granny, with a badly disguised veneer of condescension. “As the head of household, it is expected of me to have a hand in the arrangements. Perhaps I could speak with the young lady’s parents.”  
  
Though she didn’t cross her arms, Granny struck a rock-hard stance, standing straight and facing Laurel head-on. “It should do just fine to speak with me.”  
  
But, as if on cue (possibly sensing the smell of money), Ivy appeared from the kitchen. “Now what’s all this?” she asked, startling slightly when she saw who was standing in the door. (She couldn’t have recognized them, but she recognized wealth.) “Oh, we have guests! How do you do, madam and sirs. What brings you here today?”  
  
The look on Laurel’s face clearly said she thought she’d won. “I’m here on behalf of my ward, Lord Tom Lynn, to extend an offer of marriage to this young woman, who I take to be your lovely daughter? Tom was utterly enchanted the other night by her beauty and grace.”  
  
Polly scowled, ready to bet an unreasonable sum that Tom had not said those words. Though they hadn’t known each other long, she felt sure he knew her well enough not to describe her like _that._ That was the sort of thing someone would only say about her if they’d spoken less than ten words. It was the sort of thing he should have said about any of the _other_ women at the party.  
  
But it was exactly what Ivy wanted to hear. As Polly’s mother, she inevitably viewed Polly as an extension of herself (when anyone had anything flattering to say about her, at least), so she was very proud to hear that a rich man had _apparently_ thought her graceful. “Oh my, what an honor,” she said, instantly turning into one of the twittering women from the party. “To think, a lord has chosen our dear Polly.”  
  
_Oh please,_ Polly thought, but she couldn’t say anything to her mother because how was she supposed to explain that this was some kind of trick? Especially when she scarcely understood it herself.  
  
Luckily Granny had her side. _“Ivy,”_ she said, reprimanding. “You would like to meet the man in question first, wouldn’t you? Before you sell Polly off like a pound of meat.”  
  
_“Sell her.”_ Ivy scoffed. “She _wants_ to go; don’t you, Polly?” (Of course she didn’t wait for an answer.) “She was so adamant about attending the party.”  
  
From the other side of the house trailed Reg’s voice. “Party?” he called. “Who’s having a party?” He came around the corner, grinning in his usual way, which didn’t change when he saw their guests. “Oh, well now I feel under-dressed!”  
  
Ivy sighed, but she kept her hostess smile on. “Reg, you know that party Polly went to? Well it seems she hit it off with the lord and now he’s asking to marry her.”  
  
“Which one?” Reg asked, a bit alarmed. “Not this charming older fellow?” He turned his grin on the man standing behind Laurel’s left shoulder, who only barely didn’t quite sneer at him.  
  
“My ward, Tom Lynn,” Laurel explained graciously. Nobody asked how on earth she had a ward old enough to be wed when she only looked Polly’s age-and-a-half. “He was very taken with Miss Polly.”  
  
Reg’s eyes brightened. “Well, isn’t that a stroke of luck! For our Polly to be chosen out of all those other girls! Not that I’m surprised, of course.”  
  
Finally, Polly’s mouth seemed to unstick itself. “He didn’t choose me!” she managed to say. They all looked at her in surprise and she stuttered for a moment. It wasn’t a good idea to let it be known that Tom had warned her off, but there had to be another way to dispute the claim that he’d asked for her. After being stared at for a good long moment, she said, “If, if he chose me then why isn’t he here himself?”  
  
As smooth as ice, Laurel smiled and reiterated her earlier statement. “It’s usual for the family to initiate these matters. Once you accept, we’ll--”  
  
But Polly had found her in, and she didn’t bother letting Laurel continue. “Well I won’t,” she said. “I won’t accept any proposal or invitation except from his lips.”  
  
As Polly’s parents stared at her in mild horror (to be so rude to someone with such money and power!), Laurel’s gaze hardened, making her smile seem very menacing. “You don’t trust that he thinks so highly of you? I know the two of you became rather _friendly_ at the party.”  
  
Granny made a soft scoffing noise with her noise, or maybe it was a laugh, but Polly didn’t turn to her. “I do trust him,” she told Laurel very plainly. “And I look forward to his visit.” She gave the woman a smile that left no room for argument and crowded at her just enough to imply she was no longer welcome.  
  
Laurel and her entourage took a step back, still managing to look graceful, as if they weren’t being ousted from a commoner’s home. “Of course,” Laurel said, nodding. “We’ll be in touch.” And then they turned around and left, for which Polly thanked god, even though her parents then turned on her.  
  
“What is the _matter_ with you?” Polly’s mother wanted to know, her hands on her hips and a deep scowl on her face. “You wanted this! Why would you turn it down?”  
  
She didn’t bother trying to explain that at no point had she actually said she’d wanted to marry Tom; Ivy wouldn’t listen to any contrary evidence once she’d gotten a story in her head. “I didn’t turn _him_ down, I turned _them_ down.”  
  
“You might as well have!” Ivy nearly yelled. Clearly she was very upset about Polly not immediately agreeing to marry into the nobility. “Now they’ll see what a rude little girl you are and probably rescind the whole offer. You’ll end up a spinster with all your books and Reg and I won’t have a family to take care of us in our elderly years. What a good job, Polly.”  
  
That was a rather intense number of assumptions, so Polly let them all slide at once. She turned to her father, who had opinions on the matter as well.  
  
“I hate to agree with your mother,” he said in his joking way, “but it really does seem like a good opportunity you’ve passed up. Why wouldn’t you jump at the chance, if you really got on so well with the young man? Cordial marriages are a rare sight these days, you know.”  
  
Polly sighed. “It’s complicated,” she said at length, and then crossed her arms to let them know she was done with the conversation. They both filtered out, grumbling at each other, at which point she was set upon by Granny, who was a bit less antagonistic about her choice.  
  
“You handled that with as much grace as one could expect,” she said, and Polly could tell it really was a compliment. She sat Polly down at the kitchen table and made them some tea, which was a good sign that she had a few things to say. “I have a good few thoughts about this whole ordeal. But I’d like to know first--” She looked at Polly with a smile that was almost a smirk, even a bit more knowing than her usual. “Just how _friendly_ did you and the young lord become at that party?”  
  
A hot blush came over Polly’s cheeks, rather scandalized. “Only a little!” she cried. “It was just one kiss, really!” She could hardly believe Granny had taken up the thread Laurel had laid down so craftily.  
  
Granny laughed outright then. “Oh Polly, I’m not judging! I was in shoes like yours once upon a time, and I behaved much more boldly. I only wanted to know what kind of a situation you’ve gotten yourself into.” She sighed, but it was not a very unhappy sound, and then she laid the opal pendant out on the table. “Your grandfather gave me this-- after he decided he couldn’t marry me. It was supposed to hide me from a particular group of people he’d gotten himself tangled with. He didn’t _say_ they were faeries, but I’m sure I’ve seen that woman before.”  
  
“You mean… grandfather was a Leroy?”  
  
“One of their thralls,” Granny explained. “And I’m quite sure he got himself killed for telling me their family secrets, and for refusing to follow their plans for him. The way I understand it, his wife would have been a sacrifice for their queen.”  
  
“A plaything or worse,” Polly echoed. 

"Mm." Granny sipped at her tea, looking rather lost in thought. She took the little pendant up and rubbed a thumb over it. "It seems they're still up to their games. I had thought that might be the case when you described your young lord's situation.”  
  
“You don’t think--” Polly began, freezing at the thought of what had apparently happened to her grandfather happening to Tom, of them both being sacrificed because they allowed their would-be wives to escape and take with them the knowledge that something was not quite right. “But he didn’t tell me any secrets! Not really.”  
  
Granny shook her head. “But you were smart enough to be wary of the Leroys. If the end result is the same, they may not care exactly what he told you.”  
  
Polly frowned heartily. “But he didn’t do anything against them. He even agreed to be married because they asked him to.”  
  
“Maybe that’s his sin,” Granny said, and Polly could guess that she was thinking of her own ill-fated lover, unable to break free from the Leroys’ control. With a deep breath not quite a sigh, she continued, “And my sin was that I didn’t try to free him of it. I may not have fully understood, but I can’t say that I didn’t know. I loved him, and yet I left him to his fate.”  
  
The comparison between the two of them was not nearly exact. Polly and Tom had not gotten _quite_ so familiar as Granny and Grandfather must have (which left Polly wondering the details of their meeting; was it love at first sight at a party, or had they met under less time-sensitive circumstances?). And Tom had not sent her off with anything to remember him by except for rose-thorn scratches and several very good book suggestions (and her life, she supposed). But, primarily… “I don’t know that I love him, though,” Polly said, feeling rather bad about being unable to commit to it.  
  
“Does that matter?” asked Granny, fixing Polly with an all-seeing stare. “Would you not try to save a friend who was in trouble? Especially if he had spared your life at risk of his own?”  
  
It seemed rather obvious, said like that. “Of course I would,” Polly said, chagrined. “But how?”  
  
“Go to him,” Granny suggested. “I think this problem may be best solved by the two it most affects.”  
  
“Go?” Polly grimaced. “Back to Hunsdon House? Isn’t that dangerous, now that they know who I am? And Tom told me to stay away.”  
  
“It was dangerous because you didn’t know. Armed with knowledge, you should be fine.”  
  
Polly stared down at the table as she considered it all. She didn’t feel as if she was very knowledgeable compared to the night of the party. She still didn’t understand how the faerie queen controlled the people of her house. But she did know several simple, important things: that whatever Lady Laurel asked of Polly, she could not give, and that it wasn’t right to leave Tom in her clutches, no matter her personal feelings.  
  
She also knew one extra thing: that she wanted the chance to find out if she might love him after all, a chance she would only have if they were both alive and free.  
  
With that decided, Polly’s eyes focused a handsbreadth to the left, on the pendant sitting, gleaming, where Granny had set it. “Should I take the pendant?”  
  
“Hmm.” Granny considered it. “It was meant to obscure the wearer, but it seems they’ve taken notice of its aura now. I think it would only serve to tell them you had come. Take it if you want to announce your presence.”  
  
Polly was glad to hear that Granny did not say that sarcastically, realizing that to save Tom she might have to do things quite backwards. “Yes, I think I will bring it,” she said. “Maybe it will save me the time of having to track Lady Laurel down.”  
  
“You mean to confront her?”  
  
She gave Granny a prim sort of frown. “I think I must. Simply absconding with Tom won’t free him, or he could have just walked out the gates himself.”  
  
The plan was forming in her mind, slowly but surely, and she was glad to see that it was a very simple plan. Unfortunately, there was no guarantee that she didn’t have it all backwards, but then again, maybe that was what she needed. Polly was certain that if she remembered the things she’d learned, she’d manage.  
  
She put back on the dress from the party (it just felt right, somehow, or maybe it would have felt wrong to go in plainclothes), and tucked the pendant in between a few secure layers, and then she said goodbye to Granny. “I intend to be home for dinner,” she said with a nod. Left unsaid was their shared understanding that she might not. Granny hugged her tight and then let her go.  
  
It took but a few minutes to return to Hunsdon House on foot, and when she arrived at the gates she simply pushed them open. Were they unlocked because they were waiting for her, or did she bypass them by not caring? Nobody greeted her there, or anywhere along the long drive, or even at the door to the house, which surprised her somewhat. It was a _side_ door she entered by, but she still thought Laurel or someone might apprehend her there-- unless faeries were averse to using undistinguished entrances, which might really be the case.  
  
It occurred to Polly that she didn’t know where Tom’s room was, or where he may be. They didn’t lock him in a dungeon to prevent him from leaving, did they? She knew which rooms were _not_ his, which should have narrowed the search a bit, but she realized he could still be in any of those. Suppose Laurel had locked him up in her room, maybe chained to the bedpost. It probably depended on whether or not they expected her, which their absence unfortunately didn’t hint at, one way or the other.  
  
The house was eerily empty, which felt especially strange to her as she’d only seen it at full capacity. Neither of Laurel’s bodyguards (or whoever they’d been, at the house earlier) were to be seen, nor anyone else who looked like a guest or family member, nor even a single servant, which was oddest of all. This probably should have seemed like a red flag (and maybe somewhere in the back of her brain it did), but Polly had already known she was likely walking into a trap. Laurel wanted her here: she thought she could keep Tom and get Polly too, to do who-knew-what with.  
  
Well, that wasn’t happening.  
  
Aside from a quick glance at the ground-floor rooms, which were as empty as the hall, she went to the library first, thinking maybe he’d be waiting in a place they might both consider special. (Although it didn’t make sense for him to be _waiting_ for her at all; Laurel might know that she was coming, but Tom shouldn’t.) It was where Polly would have been, anyway, on probably just about any occasion. He wasn’t there. It didn’t really surprise her. Things were never where you first looked for them.  
  
Next she took a cursory glance at Laurel’s room. She didn’t really like the place, even though it was a lovelier place than she had any likelihood of living in. It was creepy, and not because of the portraits, or the mirror, or because it was pink. It felt like a cold breeze on a new moon. Luckily, Tom was not there, chained or otherwise.  
  
After that, Polly went to the last place she could think of before she’d have to start glancing through all the bedrooms (followed by the attic, and the basement, which seemed just as likely). But Tom was not there in the painting gallery, and neither was his painting. She tried not to think of it as an ill omen, but she couldn’t help thinking it was an omen of some sort.  
  
Before she could turn around and leave to search the rest of the house, Polly’s eye was caught by the painting of the knight, who was kneeling with his sword at the altar. (Was he praying, or offering his allegiance? Maybe he was begging for mercy.) It was… pretty, even if it wasn’t her style. But it wasn’t pretty in the way that Laurel or her room was pretty. It was a mundane sort of pretty, which made it less frightening. Polly approached the painting, and laid a hand on the ornate frame-- upon which the thing swung forward to reveal a secret passage.  
  
_Well I should have expected that,_ she thought.  
  
She knew instantly that this would take her somewhere important, and indeed it did. The narrow corridor turned left and right several times before eventually coming to an end behind a sheet of canvas, which Polly assumed was another painting. Cautiously, she pushed it open, and on the other side was a fair-sized bedroom. She was glad to see that it had windows and two other doors, implying it wasn’t a prison, or at least not a traditional one. She was also glad to see that Tom was there, sitting at a desk by the window, writing something. He startled and turned around when she closed the painting-door behind her with a small click.  
  
Tom stood suddenly, his chair scraping noisily against the floor. “Polly! Good lord! What are you doing here?”  
  
She brushed herself off; the hidden passage had been a little dusty, though not as much as she expected hidden passages usually were. “Oh, hello,” she said, as if she hadn’t seen him. “Is this the treasure room?” She grinned but couldn’t tell if he got the joke, because his face was mostly set in confusion.  
  
“I didn’t expect to see you again,” he told her, coming a step forward but still leaving some space between them. “In fact, I rather hoped I _wouldn’t._ Please tell me this doesn’t mean Laurel’s gotten ahold of you. Has your family sold you out?”  
  
“Like a pound of meat?” Polly laughed. “They were thinking about it, when Lady Laurel came to call, but ultimately I refused.”  
  
Cocking his head, Tom asked, “Then why are you here? In fact, _how_ are you here?”  
  
Polly gave a very small little shrug. “I can’t say I know how, if that’s a real question. I walked. Other than that, I think you’d know better than I. As for _why,_ I’m here to rescue you!”  
  
“Rescue?” Tom put his head down and laughed, a faint breathy noise. “That isn’t something you can do.”  
  
She’d expected he might say something like that. “How do you know what I can’t do?”  
  
“I…” Tom looked across at her, his eyes a bit wide behind his gold glasses. “I suppose I don’t.” He took a deep breath then and let it out in a burst. “So, what’s your plan for getting us out?”  
  
“The same way I got in,” Polly told him. “We walk.”  
  
Uneasily, Tom said, “I don’t think that’s going to work out very well.” He bit his lip, as if nervous about all the ways Polly’s simple plan could go wrong.  
  
Polly nodded. “Maybe. But is it much worse than if we don’t try?”  
  
Brows drawing down, Tom glanced over his shoulder at his desk. Polly couldn’t read the paper from her slight distance, but it looked to be a partially-drafted letter. Noticing her interest, he explained, “You’re right, and I knew it when you first said so at the party, that I should leave. I didn’t know how I was going to manage, but this was to be my goodbye letter.”  
  
“You were going to try!” Polly said, her face brightening with joy. “I was worried you were going to stay put forever just because Laurel asked you to.”  
  
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Tom said with a grimace, “but… I was inspired by your words. I thought, better to take my chances than stay and be used as a snare for Laurel’s next… replacement.”  
  
“Replacement?” Polly asked automatically, before it dawned on her and she frowned, feeling sick. “Is that what she uses them for?” Her comment about being sold like a pound of meat seemed very off-color suddenly.  
  
Tom nodded a bit sidewise. “Essentially,” he said. “Which is why I couldn’t choose someone. Especially not you; she doesn’t deserve you.”  
  
“Well that’s very kind,” Polly half-joked. “Anyway, I don’t think you should bother to finish that letter. We’re likely to see her before we cross the gate, so if any of it is important you can tell her then.”  
  
He didn’t seem very excited about the prospect, but he nodded and went to gather his things. He stopped partway through packing his cello and paused, staring at it. “No, I probably shouldn’t,” he said.  
  
“Bring your cello?” Polly asked, wondering why he’d leave that, of all things, when he’d professed to excelling at it above all the other things he’d learned.  
  
“Bring anything,” Tom answered, repressing a sigh. “None of it really belongs to me, and taking more than what’s truly mine will probably only complicate our escape. It’s heavy, anyway.”  
  
Polly frowned, disappointed for him. “I suppose that means you won’t be taking your painting, either,” she said, having noticed it on the wall after she shut it over the hole she’d arrived from. “I noticed it was gone, when I got to the painting room. Did you move it so that I’d see it was missing?”  
  
“Er, no,” Tom admitted. “I just didn’t like it in there anymore. And, well, it did remind me of you.”  
  
Even so, it was to be left, like the rest of Tom’s belongings. He took only the clothes on his back, and Polly could see him wondering if even that was too much, though he clearly eventually decided that not even his freedom was worth the pride he’d have to sacrifice to part from them. They left exactly the way Polly came, backtracking through the secret passage and into the painting room, then to the library, briefly stopping by Laurel’s bedroom on the way, even though it felt dangerous.  
  
“I’ve always hated this room,” Tom said as they stepped lightly into the room, just to complete the circuit. His distaste showed on his face, so Polly didn’t linger, and they continued on. After the library, they went back downstairs, took a quick look through the rest of the ground floor, and went out through the side door into the garden.  
  
“Is it strange for the house to be this empty?” Polly asked, still feeling that the place was very eerie without the echo of chatter and footsteps.  
  
Tom looked back through the corridor and into the main hall. “I would say yes, but now that I know you’re here I wouldn’t call it all that strange. They’re probably waiting somewhere unseen. _Unseeable,_ perhaps.”  
  
“That suits me well enough,” Polly supposed. She imagined searching for Tom with Laurel peering over her shoulder the whole time. It would have been unnerving to the point of embarrassment.  
  
It was a short walk to the gate, and the closer they got to it, the more distinctly Polly knew that nobody would interrupt them until the very last minute. Before they reached it, Polly turned to Tom and said, “I have an idea, but I only _think_ it will work. It could backfire completely.”  
  
“At this point, I’m willing to try nearly anything.”  
  
“Are you willing to trust your life to me?” Polly asked, nervous that when faced with the question spoken in such plain terms that Tom would change his mind.  
  
Tom nodded, and it was only a very little bit hesitant, just enough to prove that he wasn’t entirely crazy. “I think I must be.”  
  
Polly nodded back, and then continued on to the gate. She thought about taking Tom’s hand in hers, and _wanted_ to, but decided she shouldn’t. As soon as she reached the gate, she took a deep breath, and placed her hand on it, as if to push it open.  
  
Not unexpectedly, it didn’t move, but in her peripheral vision several people appeared, with a crowd more lingering in the background.  
  
“Leaving so soon?” Laurel asked in her sickly sweet voice. “And planning to go without a word to your host? Why, it would be bad manners on both our parts if I were to let that happen.”  
  
_God forbid,_ Polly thought, but of course she didn’t say so. It was better to speak plainly in these sorts of situations, even if the other party _weren’t_ faeries. “I have what I came for,” she said instead. “So now I intend to leave.”  
  
“Oh, but _do you?”_ Laurel asked, tilting her head. “Have what you came for? Does that mean you’ve accepted our request?”  
  
“No,” Polly told the woman. “I do not. I find the situation highly unsatisfactory.”  
  
From the corner of her eye she could see that Tom looked vaguely hurt by her statement. They hadn’t really spoken about their feelings on the marriage, other than as it regarded Tom’s captors, and Polly could tell that he was a bit surprised that she would call the idea _highly unsatisfactory,_ instead of merely, perhaps, _not exactly what I’m looking for._  
  
Laurel looked some cross between smug and bored. “Well then you should know you won’t be able to take him out of here,” she said. “He is still my property. You may go, if you so wish. But Tom stays.” She paused, most likely for dramatic effect. “Unless you accept the request to be his bride.”  
  
Polly heard the implication in that, that their being wedded would allow her to take Tom away from Hunsdon House, either by virtue of the contract, or because Laurel would so graciously allow it. And she didn’t doubt that Lady Laurel was telling some form of the truth. But Polly knew better; or rather, she had _figured_ better. Whether that ended up working out or not, she’d soon see.  
  
“I absolutely do not accept,” she said, heedless of the fact that it sounded rather cold.  
  
“Then you absolutely may leave,” Laurel told her, and Polly could feel the weight shift in the gate she still clutched it one hand. She knew it would open for her now. Of course, she couldn’t leave just yet.  
  
“Thank you,” Polly said with a polite smile. Then she turned to Tom, who was looking at her just a bit like he felt betrayed. He was still holding on to hope, though; his face hadn’t fallen entirely into despair. “Before I go, I have something to ask you.”  
  
“Yes?” Tom asked, curious and concerned but also trusting, as he’d said.  
  
“Tom Lynn,” Polly began, formal but leaving off with the ‘lord’ title because she felt it lacked some truth. (And she didn’t really like it anyway.) “May I please have your hand in marriage?”  
  
A great heavy weight disappeared from Tom’s shoulders, causing him both to sag in relief and stand up straighter. He understood what she was doing now, and even though there was still a chance it wouldn’t work against the complex rules of the faerie court, he was happy to have been asked. Polly was glad, at very least, that she could make him smile like that.  
  
“Yes, Polly Whittacker, you absolutely may.”  
  
Polly held out her hand, and Tom placed his long thin one right in it, and they both smiled like the sun was shining just for them. They didn’t kiss; Polly didn’t feel like it was necessary at the moment, and she’d rather keep her eyes peeled for danger, or at least on Tom’s glowing face. She took a happy, deep breath and pushed the gate open, pulling Tom out after her. She spared a glance backward to see a disgusted look on Laurel’s face before the gate shut between their two worlds, and Tom’s captors all disappeared from view.  
  
If this was one of the smart books Polly had read, she didn’t think it would have worked. But she’d had hope in her heart and a good feeling that just _trying_ could achieve great things. She wanted to save Tom, and once Tom had decided he wanted to be saved, it was quite clear to her that nothing could stand in their way.  
  
Or at least it seemed that way in retrospect, which was how all tales were told. If she told the story to anyone else, some time in the future, she knew she would tell it like that: a tale of kindred spirits and determination, a mutual desire to help and be helped.  
  
But for now, she didn’t think she would ever tell the tale. Granny knew enough to piece together the important parts, and would be happy enough never to know the rest. Her parents? Well, she imagined she’d introduce them to Tom, and that would be at least as much as they deserved, if not more. They wouldn’t believe her tale anyway.  
  
And Tom knew. He was on the outside now, after years under Laurel’s thumb, and he knew that it was mostly because he’d had the sense to accept Polly’s help, and the courage to reach for it.  
  
“I hope you don’t mind what I had to do,” Polly said lightly, feeling just a little guilty about roping Tom into basically the same thing he’d just escaped.  
  
“It was a clever idea,” Tom said. He was still holding her hand as they ambled down the road, looking quite pleased to carry on at their pace. “I find that I can’t be too upset. It’s much nicer to give my life willingly than to have it taken by force-- or coercion, as the case might be. I was rather young when I found myself pledged to Laurel, and looking back I’m not entirely sure how it happened. With you, though, I’m sure I won’t forget.”  
  
“And you won’t regret it?” she asked, trying not to seem nervous. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t let Tom go if he wanted (of course she would; there was no question. She wasn’t like Laurel), but she didn’t like the idea of him ever thinking that perhaps he’d have been better off without her interference. After all, Laurel was at least the devil he knew.  
  
He looked crosswise at her, somewhat wryly. “Will you?”  
  
Polly’s instinct, of course, was to open her mouth and assert that she could never regret helping Tom when he was in need, and that was mostly true. But she realized, logically, that she couldn’t know how she would feel in the future, and didn’t want to make a promise she might accidentally break. She could vow to have-and-hold him and try to make one of those elusive good marriages out of the situation, but she could not guarantee that it would work, however much she would like to. And she thought that he probably felt the same, which was why he’d turned the question back on her.  
  
Instead of saying something that neither of them quite could, or admitting something that neither of them quite _wanted_ to, she said instead, “Well, it depends. What goes into the care and feeding of a Tom Lynn?”  
  
He grinned at her. Maybe he understood what she wasn’t saying, or maybe he just liked the joke. “Just as many books as you can find, and maybe the occasional piece of sheet music.”  
  
“Then I think we shall manage,” Polly said, her head lifted high and proud. “Oh, but does a Tom Lynn require dinner? And how do you feel about shortbreads? I told Granny I’d be home, and she’ll have known well enough to make extra. I’m afraid dinner with Granny is quite mandatory.”  
  
A short laugh bubbled up out of him. “Sounds quite the difficulty,” he said with a barely-suppressed grin. “But I shall bear it, for the sake of my rescuer.”  
  
Polly considered warning him that it might really be as troublesome as he joked, with Granny likely to wring out every truth about him and every lie he’d ever thought of telling, before the meal was over, but she decided against it. Tom was reveling in his new life where nobody had sharp eyes upon his soul at any moment; she figured she’d let him enjoy it for a few minutes.


End file.
